Left, Right, North, South
by colossally abundant numbers
Summary: All nations need cleaning, and this is how they clean themselves. Russia, China, America. warning: self-harm


I should be working on my multi-chapter stuff, but this idea just wouldn't leave me!

—

Parts of him were rotting. Skin and bones and muscle, and they were _all _rotting, stinking up the air around him with their putrid stench. He had to get rid of them, had to, the stench was overpowering, nauseating. There are no doctors near him, this he knows. The doctors are afraid to approach him, fearful for a reason he doesn't understand. He won't die, after all, he is not like his boss, and even if he will he is not _afraid_ of death. Still, they won't come, they just won't _fucking_ come.

His boss says to him one day, "You're quite the mess, aren't you? A disgusting, horrid mess. I'll fix you, Vanya, I'll fix you and you can be clean again, healthy again."

"Yes," he replies, because he is disgusting, isn't he? He can't face the world like this, can't face the world with his rotting flesh and missing teeth and _everything_ because they'll shun him, they'll laugh at him. So he lets his boss fix him, he lets his boss be the doctor, because this is the only man who will approach him willingly.

He doesn't mind or cry out loud when his boss digs the blade into his arms, whispering, "This part, Vanya, this part is dirty. You don't want to be dirty, do you? You want to be _clean_, Vanya, _clean_." The blood pours as the blade digs deeper, but he's smiling now, smiling because the rotting flesh is finally gone, and who cares if all that remains is just red, red, red? A horrible, dirty red, but that can be fixed can't it? All of it can be fixed, and he won't be so fucking _dirty_ ever again.

"Please," he mumbles to himself in his sleep, "get rid of the parts that are dirty."

His boss obliges, because it's only right that you do as a patient asks, and he is nothing but a good doctor.

—

He sees China's boss more often than China, at first. They're good friends, his boss and China's boss, or so he's told. "He's a good doctor, just like me," his boss says to him, "and he'll clean up China."

He sees China later, much later, and they stare at each other, bandages covering every inch of skin, like two mummified beings clinging on to their last shreds of humanity.

"Are you clean?" he asks, because he does not want to associate with someone dirty, someone was rotting everywhere, and whose skin was covered with malaise and burns. He might catch their virus, whatever virus had caused their skin to rot away.

"I am," China whispers, but his voice is missing something. Something that Russia doesn't understand, but it doesn't matter because China is clean, so clean, like porcelain, and Russia won't get sick from being associated with him.

"We can do it together," he begins, and it's just a suggestion, really, "If you want, we can clean ourselves together. I think we can be good company." And they could, couldn't they?

China agrees, and the two meet properly for cleaning in the forests of China's northern lands. He brings along several old combat blades from the second world war and China is clutching a kitchen knife. He removes his scarf then, and his coat, and he asks, "Do you see anything?"

China nods, pointing to a blemish on an unbandaged part of his left arm. "There," the nation whispers, and Russia nods, almost mechanical. Neither of them flinch as Russia pushes the _nozh razvedchika_ into his skin, tearing the blemish to shreds, filling it with the cleansing liquid they both know far too well—blood, a rich and most welcome liquid. China uncovers his own flag from his daypack and wraps it carefully around Russia's arm, smiling because Russia was clean, Russia was perfect, Russia had no blemishes, no marks, only red, red, red.

Then he removes his own coat, and asks the same of Russia, who points to a freckle dotting the nation's leg. And China rips out the brown spot on his skin, tears it out and replaces it with a sea of blood, blood so red and so clean and so _beautiful_ that Russia almost cries. But he doesn't and instead unfurls a flag of his own and bandages China's leg with it. The two smile at each other, appreciative of the other's kindness, thought, and understanding.

—

Later, China refuses to see Russia, and he does not understand why, not when he is so clean, so perfect. Instead, he is forced to see America, and America is dirty, America is disgusting, America is not _clean_, America still has blemishes on his face (pimples, England had called it), blemishes that he won't remove, no matter how much Russia might plead. He is horrified when he sees America, because America doesn't have a good doctor, doesn't have one that will teach him how to clean himself properly. America's doctors all lie to him, this he knows, America's doctors are always telling him he's healthy when his flesh is rotting with blemishes left and right, and Russia almost laughs because they're feeding America lies, all lies.

So Russia takes it upon himself to teach America. He goads America, says that the nation is fat and ugly and dirty and disgusting and why doesn't he fix himself, why doesn't he engage in self-improvement? Why doesn't he take it into his own hands and remove the nasty parts, the disagreeable parts?

"You are unfortunate, America, for you don't have a good doctor."

America does not listen though, America never listens, it's as though he's talking to a wall.

And the one time America does try to clean himself, Russia is almost ecstatic. He is ecstatic even though America refuses to cut himself the way China and Russia have, refuses because blood is not a proper cleansing liquid for America. America has other ideas, other ways of cleaning himself. He clutches his left hand in his right and squeezes, _hard_, and winces when he hears the bones crack, winces but does not scream.

"There," he tells Russia, "I am clean, I am clean of your disgusting blood." And he smiles, because he can't have blood, he can't have himself bathing in an ocean of red, but that doesn't mean he can't clean himself, that doesn't mean he can't be _clean_, right? He just won't be clean the stupid way, by drawing his own blood, he'll be clean the American way, the reasonable way, the democratic way.

—

**notes:** I think three names are enough to explain this one: McCarthy, Stalin, and Mao.


End file.
